


Casual Love, No Casualties

by remiges



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Aftercare, Bets & Wagers, Bondage, Light Crying, M/M, Nipple Play, Silence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 09:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17764094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remiges/pseuds/remiges
Summary: "I don't want to be particularly nice," Marc confesses, only to have Claude look at him like he's an idiot."Who the fuck said I wanted you to?"





	Casual Love, No Casualties

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [yeswayappianway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeswayappianway/pseuds/yeswayappianway) for encouraging me and for the comments. You're the best!
> 
> This fic was inspired by [this picture](https://nhl.bamcontent.com/images/photos/300570824/raw.jpg), which was taken on Media Day (and then photoshopped together). :D 
> 
> Title from [Honey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8a1Qv2lMF64) by The Brinks.

It's not that Claude is easy, but Marc doesn't think twice about packing his cuffs for the NHL Media Day. 

His mind wanders to Claude during the photoshoots and in between interviews and promos. Not sex—Marc's not as unprofessional as that—but logistics. The league has put him in an end room at the hotel, which is good if Claude gets loud, and Manson has a girlfriend in Chicago so Marc has the room to himself, and all he has to do is find Claude and see if he's down to fuck. Marc's pretty sure he will be, but Claude must be doing something in a different part of the building because he hasn't even spotted him yet. He could text, but in-person seems like more fun. 

"Look a little to your left," the woman taking pictures says, and Marc does so with a smile. 

The NHL keeps their schedules pretty booked, but they have to let them eat sometime, and Marc finally spots Claude when he goes to grab lunch from the caterers. Claude is standing by the drinks, doing something on his phone, and the sight of him makes Marc's stomach flip. He's wearing black slacks and a white button-up, nothing special, but he looks good. Claude notices him as he's heading across the room, and Marc palms the extra key card he's been carrying around in his jacket. 

"Fleury," Claude says when he's close enough. He's put his phone away and the corner of his mouth is turned up, and Marc thinks his cuffs are definitely getting used tonight. 

"Hey. I see you made it through the photoshoot, this is nice," Marc tells him, running the back of his hand down the material of Claude's shirt. He tucks the extra key card in Claude's pants pocket. "You should come back to mine later, after dinner."

Claude raises an eyebrow. "Nice pleasantries," he says, like he hadn't jumped Marc at the last ASG they'd been at together. "That's what gets you going? Me in nice clothes?"

Marc pretends to think for a moment, then shakes his head. "Nah, just the clothes," and laughs when Claude punches him on the arm. 

"I'm not at your beck and call." Claude says, but it doesn't sound like he particularly means it. He checks his watch. "I'm supposed to be getting ready for a promo, but it'd serve you right if I just didn't show up later, let you get yourself off." 

Marc glances around, but nobody's paying them any attention. Even if they were, it's not like they're the only ones hooking up tonight. "You can get me back," he promises, and Claude smirks and flexes like he's been waiting for the right moment. 

"I always do," he says before sauntering off toward the dessert table and snagging a cookie. Marc watches him go, only because his ass looks criminally good in those slacks, then goes to grab a wrap, anticipation shivering to life under his skin. 

***

Marc walks into his room after dinner to find Claude lounging on Manson's bed, messing around on his phone. He's still got the outfit on he was wearing earlier, but the top button of his shirt is undone and his shoes are off, revealing green argyle socks. It's clear he's been snooping, because the cuffs Marc had brought are sitting beside him on the bed, the leather straightened out in a neat line. 

"You're late," Claude says, thumbing off his phone and setting it on the bedside table. 

"And you're on the wrong bed," Marc says, flipping the deadbolt behind him. He doesn't think Manson is going to come back for anything, but he'd learned the hard way not to assume after Tanger had barged in on him one time. Honestly, he's surprised Claude still lets him tie him up after that particular experience. 

Marc takes off his suit jacket and hangs it off the back of a chair. There's no sign of the ball gag he'd brought, and Marc doesn't know if that means Claude hadn't found it or if he just doesn't want to use it.

"So," Claude says, stretching as he stands up and takes a couple of steps toward Marc in what can only be classified as a stalk. "You want a strip tease?" His eyes are bright, fingers nimble as they start to undo the top buttons on his shirt. Any other time Marc would be all over this, but he's after something different tonight. 

"Actually," he says, catching Claude's hands when he's close enough, "I had something else in mind."

Claude raises his eyebrows when Marc wraps a hand around one of Claude's wrists and squeezes, but all he says is, "Yeah, somehow I got that impression," while cutting his eyes at the cuffs sitting on the bed. "What were you thinking?" 

"I want you on your knees," Marc says, reluctantly letting go. The heat of his skin, even through the fabric, lingers. "And I want to mess you up," he admits when Claude motions for him to go on. 

"You know how expensive this was?" Claude asks, gesturing at what he's wearing as he takes a step back and sits down on the edge of the bed. He doesn't look fazed otherwise, and Marc lets out an internal sigh of relief.

"I'll make it up to you," he promises, moving the cuffs over and sitting next to him. 

Claude doesn't look impressed. "Fine, but you're paying for dry cleaning," and Marc will take that. It's not the first time Claude has threatened him with his bills, but neither of them have ever followed up on that. Marc probably should have, a couple of times, but he likes winding Claude up.

"Hey," he says, changing the subject before Claude can start in on his usual tirade. He's pretty sure Claude found the gag but he wants to be sure. "Did you—" 

"No," Claude interrupts. "No gags."

Well, that answered that question. 

"I'm not trying to change your mind or anything," Marc says, twisting further toward him, "but this one's different than the one we tried before." The ring gag, he means. Claude had been fine up until the point where he'd started drooling, and then he'd taken the gag off and bolted so fast Marc had been sure he'd never see him again outside of a hockey context. "And I mean, you're not exactly quiet," he continues.

Claude snorts. "No gag," he repeats, but Marc notices it takes him a minute to drag his eyes away from Marc's bag, his fingers tight on his knees. "I can be quiet."

Marc doesn't think he needs words to convey his skepticism, but he still says, "That's not how I remember the All-Star Game going down." He's pretty sure half the floor would agree with him.

"Oh, fuck you," Claude grouches. "Those walls were paper-thin. I can be quiet. Want to bet on it?" 

"On you being quiet?" Marc asks. He pretends to think for a minute, but it's not like they've never done sex bets before. That's part of how they'd gotten here. "Fine, winner gets dibs next time, no holds barred." 

Claude raises an eyebrow. "You really want me in a gag that bad?" He's sitting back on his hands, his shirt stretched over his pecs, and oh, does Marc have plans for him. 

"Thought you weren't going to lose?" He unclasps his watch so he has something to do other than stare. "And some holds barred, obviously." 

He catches a movement out of the corner of his eye, and when he looks up Claude is suddenly much closer than he'd been expecting. Marc tries not to jump, but from the way the skin around the corner of Claude's eyes crinkles, he doesn't think he succeeds. 

"You know," Claude says, voice low and intimate, "I always did want to see you in mascara again after that Halloween snap you sent me." He runs a delicate finger over Marc's eyelashes, and Marc's eyelid flutters uncontrollably. 

Marc swallows, and Claude drops his hand, looking like he's just realized what he's doing. "Alright then," Marc says, mouth dry. "We have a deal." 

The cuffs clink gently when he shifts on the bed, and that seems to break whatever moment they've stumbled into. Claude shifts back and Marc puts his momentarily forgotten watch on the bedside table, which involves leaning across Claude. He's wearing cologne that smells expensive but not overpowering, and Marc has to resist throwing his plans out the window and jumping him right there. 

"Tell me what's off limits tonight," he says when he's out of Claude's personal space and breathing recycled hotel air again. It's not a great tradeoff, but he doesn't think much would be. 

"No name-calling," Claude says, which, Marc doesn't think he needs the reminder every single time, but he doesn't say so. Claude likes praise, much as he hates to admit it, and Marc isn't into degradation in any case. "No marks." 

"No marks anywhere, or no visible marks?" If it's the first it changes his plans some, but he can work around that. 

"No visible marks," Claude decides after a pause. "Nothing I can't cover up with a shirt and shorts. I'm talking like, hickeys," he clarifies. "I'm not looking for real pain." 

"Scratching okay?" 

Claude nods.

Marc runs a finger up the exposed skin at his throat, and though Claude doesn't shiver, Marc thinks it's a close thing. "I don't want to be particularly nice," he confesses, only to have Claude look at him like he's an idiot. 

"Who the fuck said I wanted you to?" he asks, and Marc doesn't have anything to say to that. 

"So, we're good?" he says instead. 

Claude bares his teeth in something approaching a grin. "I've been ready since before you got here, Fleury. Just be glad I didn't jerk off in your bed and leave." 

"Technically, this is Manson's bed," Marc points out on autopilot, starting to unbutton his shirt. He's trying not to imagine what that would have been like, coming back to find the room smelling like come and Claude, but it's difficult. It probably would have been good, but not as good as this. 

"Whatever. Hey," Claude says, stilling Marc's hands with his own as he gets to the second button. "If you get a show, I want a show." 

Marc thinks he probably would have worn a different suit if he'd known he was going to be keeping it on—maybe the green velvet one Claude likes so much—but this will have to do.

"Thought you were going to be quiet?" Marc asks. Claude's grip on his wrists isn't hard, but there's strength there. It's doing something funny to Marc's pulse. 

"I'll shut up when you put me on my knees." Claude says it so matter-of-fact that the disparity between his tone and what he's saying is enough to make Marc's dick jump. 

"Okay," Marc says, mouth dry. The AC kicks on with a rumble, and the noise reminds him of the other question he'd been going to ask before he'd gotten distracted by Claude's… everything. 

"Do you want me to turn the heat up, or—" Claude lets go of him long enough to pick up the cuffs and press them into his hands. 

"Fleury," he says. "Stop stalling."

Marc takes a breath, the leather of the cuffs smooth under his touch, and then nods. If Claude would rather be cold then wait, that's his choice. 

He rolls Claude's sleeves up above his elbows, and Claude holds his arms out in front of him when he's finished. Marc puts them behind his back instead, but Claude doesn't protest, just flexes his hands and holds still. 

The cuffs are lined with sheepskin and they fit Claude's wrists one on top of the other, enough to push his chest out but not enough to be uncomfortable for a long time. Marc can practically feel Claude's body vibrating as he does up the clasps. 

Claude likes being tied up, but he doesn't like being tied down. The distinction means Marc is never going to be able to tie him to his bed, but less restrictive bondage is okay. Marc's thought before about figuring out how to do him up in some sort of harness, something that would have the pressure of restraints without the immobilization, but so far all he's done is watch a bunch of youtube tutorials and sext Claude when he gets too turned on. The ads that pop up on websites now are all for different types of rope, but Marc thinks it'll be worth it when he finally finds the right time to bring it up. 

"Alright," he says, slapping Claude on the ass just so he'll get glared at. He drops a pillow on the floor in the middle of the room where they won't be in danger of bumping into anything if things get out of hand. "Down you go." 

Marc gets a hand around a bicep and helps him down, more because he can than because Claude needs him to. He almost expects Claude to start in on his usual spiel of how this would be easier if Marc put him where he wanted before he put the cuffs on, but Claude doesn't. It shouldn't throw Marc, but somehow it does. 

Claude shifts from one knee to the other, then stills. Marc thinks about asking if he wants the heat turned up again, since he isn't planning on leaving Claude fully clothed for long, but Claude's already had the chance to give his input on the temperature. 

Claude is pretty simple—he likes orgasms and for everyone to have a good time, and doesn't particularly care how he gets those two things. He likes being teased, but not to the point where it flips over into something that feels malicious to him. Marc's had enough practice by now that he feels he can tell where the line is with a fair degree of certainty, and Claude hadn't taken that off the table so he's planning on taking his time. 

Marc crouches behind Claude and runs a finger across the bared skin of his arms, starting below where his sleeve ends and dancing his fingers across the cuff to the other side. Claude shivers. 

"You know, you look good like this," Marc tells him, coming around to face Claude. He sweeps his palms down Claude's chest, then over his thighs, and Claude pushes up into his touch. Marc settles him down again with his hands on his shoulders. 

"I mean, your shoes could use some work—" he shoots a glance at Claude's discarded brown _whatevers_ , "—but I guess it doesn't matter if the picture for the league is only going to be waist up." He grins when he looks up and catches Claude shutting his mouth with a sour look on his face. 

"Still think you're going to win this bet?" he asks, kneeling and pressing one knee between Claude's as he reaches for Claude's belt. Claude gives him a deadpan look, somewhat undercut by the way his breathing is picking up. 

Marc gets his belt open and pulls it through the loops as slowly as he can make himself. He unbuttons the pants and pulls the zipper down, but leaves Claude's underwear alone, much as he'd like to see his dick. He can wait. 

He untucks Claude's shirt next, and the skin at Claude's waist is soft and warm, a layer of fat over the muscle. Marc takes the opportunity to bite at Claude's ear when he's got his arms wrapped around him to get the back, their bodies pressed closer than need be. Claude twitches but doesn't make a sound, and Marc shouldn't find that disappointing considering how fucking loud Claude usually is, but he does. 

Marc is starting to heat up, and he can't imagine how hot he would be if Claude had made him put his jacket back on. Still, it's a price he's willing to pay for being able to take Claude apart. And he _is_ starting to come apart, squirming impatiently as Marc spends his time running his hands across Claude's body, over his clothes instead of skin-to-skin. 

Marc doesn't usually have opportunities to slow things down like this, or maybe he just doesn't take them. He runs a finger over the cut of Claude's hip, then ghosts a knuckle down the bulge of Claude's burgeoning erection. Claude bucks his hips, chasing Marc's touch where he wants it, but this is Marc's show. 

"Behave," he says sharply, getting a hand in Claude's hair and yanking. Claude shakes his head, though he doesn't move back or open his mouth. He meets Marc's gaze head-on and firm, and Marc lets go. 

"Sorry," he says, running a hand over where he'd just pulled. Maybe it's too soon for that kind of play, or maybe Claude just isn't looking for that tonight, but either way Marc isn't going to keep pushing if he can't get Claude to tell him which it is. He thinks if he stops to have a discussion now, Claude might actually strangle him. 

Half in apology and half because Marc's own pants are getting tight, he pops a button on Claude's shirt. 

"If you let me do something you don't want just because you want to win this bet, I'm going to be so fucking mad at you," he tells him, fingers slipping the next two buttons free. 

Claude rolls his eyes in what Marc takes to be agreement. Marc pulls back the two halves of his shirt, slipping them down Claude's arms so the freckles on his shoulders are exposed. The shirt is still buttoned at the bottom, and the sight he makes—chest bared, pants unzipped, dick tenting his underwear—is absolutely obscene. That doesn't even touch the flush high on his cheeks or the way his eyes are dark with want, his hair rumpled from Marc's grip. 

If Marc were feeling particularly mean, he would leave Claude like this, go back to innocuous touches for a while. That would be just as difficult to bear himself as it would be for Claude, though, and Marc tries not to be cruel. Instead, he sets his fingers to Claude's left nipple and twists. 

That gets a reaction. Claude sucks a breath that sounds more like a gasp, and presses forward before pulling back, like he doesn't know whether to try to get away or get more of the sensation. 

"Shh," Marc reminds him, letting go and stroking his fingers down the curve of Claude's pec. "Thought you were going to be quiet?" 

The pointed silence that greets his remark is enough to make him smile, but he keeps his eyes down. There's a tendril of delight unwinding in his chest, and if he meets Claude's gaze and laughs, he thinks this whole thing isn't going to last long. Instead, he ducks his head and licks a stripe up Claude's right nipple before blowing on it. 

"Good," he says approvingly when Claude doesn't make a sound. He cups both hands over Claude's pecs and squeezes, watches Claude go red. "You look good like this." 

Marc shifts until he's got both knees between Claude's, putting Claude's quickly hardening erection more prominently on display. Marc is feeling decidedly constrained in his still-zipped pants, but it's not important at the moment. Claude squirms and pushes his chest out further, glaring at Marc as if to say, 'Get on with it,' though his flush is spreading down his throat. 

Marc grins at him and takes the hint. 

He spends some time scraping his teeth over Claude's chest, alternately sucking on his nipples and biting lightly at them. By the time he graduates to running his fingers across Claude's skin—pinching and scratching to see the white marks get swallowed by rising pink—the head of Claude's cock is poking out from his underwear, and he's moving in little humping motions that Marc's not sure he even realizes he's doing. He's been quiet enough so far that Marc hasn't teased him again, just listened to his little pants and a particularly sharp inhale when Marc had scratched his nails down both nipples. 

"If I had a vibrator with me," Marc breathes, flicking his tongue out to taste the marks he's made on Claude's skin. "I would put it right here—" he thumbs a nipple "—and make you _cry_." 

Claude throws his head back at that and does a whole body shiver, but he doesn't break. Maybe Marc should be trying harder to get him to make noise, but the bet was Claude's idea. Marc's perfectly content with having his fun without it. 

When he looks up from sucking a succession of hickeys on the underside of a pec, he sees Claude has his eyes shut and is biting his lips bloodless. Marc softens his touch and rubs over Claude's chest, avoiding his nipples and petting what chest hair he has, but Claude still doesn't open his eyes. 

"Hey," Marc says, cupping his cheek. When Claude's eyes flutter open, they're hazy and dark, his pupils huge in the dim of the room. He turns his head and catches the side of Marc's palm, sucks hard before nipping the skin, and suddenly Marc is done with waiting. 

"Just a minute," he says, pulling Claude's underwear down enough to free his erection, and Claude chokes. Marc doesn't touch him, no matter how much he can tell Claude wants him to, but since his mouth is still open he runs his thumb along Claude's tongue. It's a temptation too difficult to resist, and the heat in Claude's gaze intensifies.

"Just a minute," Marc repeats, dragging himself to his feet and fumbling with his belt, and why had he let Claude convince him to keep his clothes on? Claude licks his lips in what looks like an unconscious move, and god, Marc isn't going to last long at all. 

He gets his belt undone and throws it in the direction of the bed, not taking his eyes off Claude even when he hears the clatter of it hitting the floor. He unzips his pants and pushes his underwear down far enough to palm himself, and Claude's eyes follow him the whole way. 

The orneriness that Claude carries with him, the stubbornness he never just leaves at the rink, is mostly gone, and now Marc has Claude stripped down to wanting. His shoulders are moving like he's trying to reach for Marc even with the cuffs on, and if that doesn't get Marc going, nothing will. 

"You want this?" he asks, more rhetorical than anything. Claude demands better than he begs—the latter almost not at all—but with the onus of speaking off of him, Marc is free to talk. 

Claude looks a picture like this—half-undressed, the lines Marc has scored on his skin puffing up, lips red and wet. Marc steps between Claude's spread thighs, the shiny black leather of his dress shoes somehow making the picture even dirtier, and Claude sways forward. 

Now is when Marc could set a hand in Claude's hair and tell him to behave. He knows Claude would. "You look so good," Marc says instead, only half-paying attention to the words spilling out of his mouth as he pumps his dick. Claude puts his head on Marc's hip, his breath tickling Marc's fingers, and Marc clumsily combs Claude's hair back. "So _fucking_ good." 

He pushes Claude upright and tags his cheek with the head of his leaking dick, then his forehead, and Claude leans into it. Marc makes another pass, smearing precome across his skin in a slick glide. Claude is panting, shifting around as he tries to find some friction or relief, but Marc hadn't been lying when he'd said he wanted to be mean. 

"Fuck," he grits out as Claude opens his mouth and tries to catch his dick. "Do you know what you fucking look like? What you let me do to you?" He runs the head over Claude's lips, and Claude opens wider and presses his tongue down like he wants Marc's dick in his throat yesterday. 

Marc has to squeeze his eyes shut and grab for his balls to stop from coming then and there. Claude doesn't like giving blowjobs when he doesn't have the use of his hands, and Marc isn't stupid enough to stick his dick somewhere Claude has explicitly told him not to, no matter how much Claude looks like he wants him to or how much it feels like Marc's brain is melting. 

"So goddamn good for me," he babbles, giving Claude a couple of fingers to suck on instead, and Claude is actually fighting the cuffs now, dick leaking precome like crazy. When Marc takes his fingers back, he gets the closest thing to an actual sound that Claude has made so far, a whine just on this side of desperate, and Marc decides that's enough. Even if he'd wanted to continue teasing, he doesn't think he could. 

"Okay, okay," he pants, his thighs shaking. "Close your eyes," and for once in his goddamn life Claude does as he's told. 

Marc comes over his face and the crest of his half-open mouth, and he has to reach out and steady himself with Claude's shoulder when his legs feel like they're going to give out. He opens his eyes to see Claude licking Marc's come from his lips, and if he were younger he might be able to go again right then. 

Claude opens his eyes and finds Marc's immediately, and if Marc thought he'd looked desperate before, it has nothing on how he looks now. 

"Yeah," Marc says, dropping to his knees in front of Claude and reaching for his dick without stopping to tuck himself back in. "Yeah, come on, you've done so well," he croons. Claude looks like he's fast approaching the limit of how much he can take, but Marc isn't going to make him wait. 

He gets a hand around the back of Claude's neck, and Claude tips into him with a subvocal noise. Claude's face is hot and sticky pressed against the side of his neck. He's getting come all over Marc's shirt, but Marc can't bring himself to care as he gets a hand between their bodies and finally wraps it around Claude's dick. 

Claude pants against his skin, breath warm and irregular. He's so wet from waiting that Marc doesn't need spit or lube or anything to stroke him in an effortless glide. Claude's far enough gone that Marc could probably get him to rub off on his thigh, but he isn't sure about chafing.

He'd thought Claude would come in a dozen strokes after everything Marc has put him through, but he doesn't. He's trying, but it seems like he's getting more and more frustrated. His hands are tugging at the cuffs, and his knees are spread as far as his slacks will allow, and Marc's doing that thing with his thumb that Claude likes, but it's not working. 

There have been times before where Claude couldn't get there for whatever reason—just reached a plateau and stalled out. Marc doesn't know if it has to do with the type of stimulation, or a mental block, or just a part of Claude's body that can't be out-stubborned, but he doesn't want this to be one of those nights. 

"Come on," he says, speeding up his hand. "Come on, Giroux. Give it up for me." Claude bites him on the shoulder through his shirt, and Marc takes that as his cue to shut up. He could undo the cuffs, let Claude jerk himself off, but he thinks the interruption would end any chance of Claude coming tonight 

It seems like Claude is getting closer now, though. He's trembling with his whole body, breathing hard against Marc's neck. He shuffles his knees wider one last time, hips snapping forward, and Marc takes his free hand and reaches up between them to Claude's pec—still puffy from the abuse he'd put it through—and digs his nails into the bud of his nipple. 

Claude's body bows and stays like that for a long, extended minute, his shaking suddenly lessening, and then he's coming. He does it silently, just the shiver of his breath loud in Marc's ear, and when he's finally done he slumps more fully on Marc's shoulder, his weight a heavy responsibility. 

Marc takes his hand away when Claude twitches, oversensitive, and runs his clean hand up and down his back. The material of Claude's shirt is damp where he'd sweated through it, and he doesn't move to get up or pull away. After a minute, Marc feels his breathing hitch. He doesn't say anything, just keeps up the steady rhythm and tries to discreetly wipe off his other hand before he curls it around Claude's neck. 

Claude gets like this sometimes—overwhelmed by his body's responses or something internal, Marc has never asked. He doesn't know if Claude would tell him, if he even knows. 

Marc starts talking when he feels the first hot press of what could be a tear. 

"You know, I was actually kind of surprised you showed up to this thing," he says, running his hand down Claude's back further until he can start undoing the cuffs one-handed. "Not that I'm not enjoying it, just, I was half expecting Gritty to show up instead." 

That gets a wet snort out of Claude, and Marc finally gets the cuffs off and drops them to the side. He scratches his nails through the shorn hair at Claude's neck before rubbing Claude's wrists. The cuffs are lined and he's never had any problems with them before, but the act settles something in him. Claude lets him move his wrists around to his front without picking up his head. 

"I mean," Marc continues, "it wouldn't have been as good as this—" Claude crawls his fingers under the hem of Marc's shirt in warning, but he finishes his thought anyway. "—but I don't know, orange is kind of my color." When Claude digs his fingers in, it isn't a surprise. 

"Don't even fucking joke," Claude says, breath tickling Marc's neck. His voice isn't quite steady yet, and he pinches the skin at Marc's waist like he needs something to do with his hands. Marc just hums. 

After a minute, Claude says, "My dick's cold," and Marc breathes a sigh of relief. Maybe he should enjoy the times Claude is quiet—he's a chirpy motherfucker on the ice and usually bossy during sex and in the afterglow—but Marc would rather have him like this than silent. 

Still, there are some things he can't let slide. "'Do you want the heat turned up,' I asked, and you said no. Remember that?" 

Claude picks his head up and glares, but his mouth wobbles a bit, so maybe it's still too soon to tease. He looks a mess, come smeared on his face and drying in his beard, eyes red-rimmed. Marc reaches out and drags the cuff of his sleeve over Claude's cheeks, thumbs the delicate skin beneath his eyes. The shirt's a lost cause anyway, but that's not why he does it. 

"Come on," he says, holding out his hands and pulling Claude to his feet when he takes them. Marc kicks the pillow out of the way so Claude won't trip on it and pulls his pants most of the way back up before sitting him down on the bed. He tucks Claude's soft dick back into his underwear, and somehow that's the most intimate thing he's done all night. 

"Pushover," Claude tells him, but he's blinking like he hadn't expected Marc to actually go through with it. When he raises a hand to his face, Marc catches it before he can make contact. 

"I've got it, let me," he instructs. Claude opens his mouth to say something, and Marc shoots a glance at the cuffs still lying on the floor where he'd dropped them. Claude's mouth clicks shut. 

"Not tonight," Claude says after a pause where Marc thinks he might have pushed too far. "I already won, no rematches." 

He swipes a hand across his forehead, then starts picking at his beard. Marc gives it up as a lost cause and goes to the bathroom to get a washcloth wet. When he returns, Claude is undoing the rest of the buttons on his shirt. Marc can see the pink lines from his fingernails scored across Claude's pecs, and something in him lights up at the sight. 

"Close your eyes," he tells Claude as he sits down beside him, their knees touching. Claude frowns at him for a minute, the corners of his mouth tight and unhappy, and Marc curses the hotel's water heater for not working faster. Claude gets like this sometimes, like he wants back all the control he gave up during a scene. 

Claude keeps his eyes open and Marc doesn't insist, but he's not surprised when he swipes the washcloth across the top of a cheekbone only to have Claude pull away, saying, "That's too hot." 

"Well, you were just complaining about the cold," Marc points out. 

"That doesn't mean you have to try and scald me to death," Claude snaps, and yeah. It's one of those nights.

Marc isn't surprised when the next temperature ends up being too hot, or the next one too cold, or the next one _also_ too cold, even though it had felt perfectly lukewarm to him. He stands in the bathroom and lets the water run, though he doesn't rinse out the washcloth again. 

His family had a cat when he was growing up, and when it was young it would sprint around at top speed during the night, like it had gotten too wound up and couldn't figure out how to stop. He'll never tell Claude this—or at least, not if he wants to keep his balls attached to his body—but Claude reminds him of that, sometimes: running and waiting to be caught and held and calmed down enough that he can finally stop. 

In the mirror on the wall outside the bathroom, Marc can see Claude sitting on the bed, hands in his lap. He hasn't picked at the mess on his face again, though it must be uncomfortable, and it makes Marc think. Claude hasn't gotten up or taken the washcloth from him to clean up on his own because he wants to be taken care of like that, at least for a while. But, Marc considers, he doesn't want to want that, or maybe he just likes pushing. Maybe he really does have the most sensitive skin known to man.

Marc resists the urge to turn the water on cold and just let Claude deal with it. Instead, he looks in the bathroom mirror at the color on his cheeks and the still-damp spots on his shirt from Claude's tears or Marc's come and takes a breath. Then he turns off the faucet and steps back into the main room. 

Instead of sitting down on the bed again, Marc comes and stands between Claude's legs. Claude has to look up at him like this, and he's still a mess but he's _Marc's_ mess. 

"Claude," Marc says, tucking two damp fingers under Claude's chin, even though Claude is meeting his gaze head-on. "I can do this all night. You want me to make twenty trips to the bathroom, I'll make twenty fucking trips to the bathroom, but this is going to end the same way. Would it help if I put the cuffs back on?" Up until that point Claude had been looking tired and a little mulish, but now he pulls away with a shake of his head. 

"No," he says, low and hoarse. Marc catches his chin again and thinks for one vivid second that Claude is going to _bite_ him, but then he settles down. 

"Then _let me do this_." 

He's sure for a minute that Claude won't, that he'll bitch about the temperature of the washcloth again or Marc himself, but he doesn't. He hesitates like he's not sure what to say, and Marc thinks about the way he'd slid his thighs open without prompting when Marc came back from the bathroom, and the way he's pressing his face imperceptibly into Marc's touch. 

Maybe he played this the wrong way and should have put his foot down when Claude kicked up a fuss the first time, put the cuffs back on and made Claude take getting cleaned up with at least the veneer of it being something he didn't want, but Marc hadn't. If that's something Claude wants from him, he's going to have to figure out how to ask for it. 

"You already won, remember?" Marc says softly, and Claude finally nods his head just enough that Marc feels it more than sees it, and closes his eyes. 

He still hisses at the first touch of the washcloth and pulls away before stilling. Marc raises an eyebrow, but Claude doesn't open his eyes when he mutters, "Sadist," before quieting back down, and Marc settles in to work. 

When he gets down to it, he really didn't do that much damage. Most of what was on Claude's face is now smeared on the shoulder of Marc's shirt, but he still starts from the top and begins working his way down. He'd striped Claude's cheek and part of his forehead, the right side of his beard. Marc's just glad he hadn't gotten any come in Claude's eyes—he'd never hear the end of it. 

Claude suffers through Marc's ministrations in silence until Marc starts scrubbing at the part of his chin below his mouth. Claude hisses then and jerks away, and Marc resists the urge to groan. He'd thought they were done with this. 

"What," he says, sounding more aggrieved than he'd intended. 

"It's my lip," Claude tells him, tonguing at it from the inside. He tugs it down, and Marc can make out the dark red line where Claude must have dug his teeth in while he was trying to be quiet. Marc reaches out before he can stop himself, and then he has a thumb pressed into the deep pink of Claude's lip. It doesn't look like it's bleeding, but Marc wouldn't be surprised if it had. Claude hates to lose. 

He stays like that, Claude's breath warm against his fingers, until he comes to his senses and takes his hand back. 

"Sorry," he says, looking up. Claude's eyes are almost gray in the spill of light coming from the bathroom, and for no amount of money or Cups in the world could Marc have said if he was apologizing for touching him like that or for making him bite his lip in the first place. The air between them feels supercharged, the washcloth all but forgotten in his hand. 

"Really?" Claude asks. He's not smiling, but there's something in the dip of his mouth, the crease of skin around his eyes, that makes Marc think it's not far off.

"Yeah," he answers. He brings the washcloth up, rubs over the scruff of Claude's beard again even though it's clean by now. He doesn't drop his eyes from Claude's. 

Someone walks by outside the room, talking loudly in Russian, and right now the smart thing to do would be to step back, let whatever this is dissipate, but Marc hasn't made it as far as he has by playing it safe. He puts the washcloth on the bed instead, presses forward just a little so Claude will spread his legs further and let him in. 

"So?" Claude asks. "What are you going to do about it?" 

It's on the tip of Marc's tongue to say something flippant, make a joke, but he shrugs. "I don't know. What do you want me to do?" 

"Kiss it better," Claude demands, his gaze sharp and clear, skin damp and still slightly flushed, and Marc is moving before it occurs to him that he could choose not to. 

It's not like they've never kissed before, but always in service to something else, never when there wasn't explicitly sex on the table. And Marc can't say there isn't this time as well, but he keeps it soft, almost chaste against the chill of Claude's lips. Maybe he was right about the washcloth being cold. 

Claude presses his tongue into Marc's mouth, obviously moving at a different speed. He makes a noise that sounds nothing more than a cutoff moan, and then Marc kisses him harder, just enough to hurt, just enough to hear him hiss. 

They end up sprawled across the bed, Marc still wearing all his clothes, Claude's shirt half-tangled underneath him, his half-chub notched against the cut of Marc's hip.

"I can't go again," Claude tells him almost apologetically when he pulls back, and Marc shrugs. 

"I didn't think you could." He interrupts Claude's defense of his virility by fitting his mouth over Claude's again, and they trade kisses back and forth until Marc's eyelids are going heavy and his whole body feels saturated and warm. 

"You want to stay?" he asks as they wind down, curling a hand over Claude's side. "Manson isn't going to be back tonight." 

Claude thinks about it, then shrugs. "Okay, but only if I can use your toothbrush." Marc wrinkles his nose at that, but honestly, he's put his mouth worse places. "I'm not getting dressed to go back to my room after you mauled me," Claude adds, tapping Marc's chest. 

"I'll make it up to you," Marc promises, running a delicate finger over the worst of the scratches he'd left. "Was that okay? I know you said I could leave marks, but these might have been more than you were expecting." 

"Nah, it's fine," Claude says, rolling onto his back. He looks over then, something mischievous in his eyes. "I might take you up on that vibrator thing, though, unless you were just bluffing."

"Bluffing?" Marc says, affronted, and Claude climbs off the bed and starts digging through his suitcase. "I can put you in clamps before I stick the vibe on, if you'd rather have that." 

Claude must have found his toothbrush, because he laughs and says, "Big talk," before heading to the bathroom. 

Marc smiles to himself for a minute before sitting up and taking his shoes off. He's pretty sure his outfit is worse off than Claude's, what with the come on his pants and shirt, but it can't be helped. It's not like he's going anywhere other than the airport tomorrow, and he has other clothes for that. He uses the bathroom after Claude is done with it, toothbrush and all, and when he hears the plastic clatter of Claude messing with the controls on the AC unit and then the low rumble of the heater kicking on, he can't help but smirk. 

By the time Marc gets back, Claude has divested himself of his shirt and pants, though he's still wearing his argyle socks. Marc's pretty sure he's planning on wearing them to bed, but he holds his tongue. 

"Good?" Claude asks, and gets the lights when Marc nods. 

They don't usually spend the night together when they do this, but it's not like they've never done it before, either. There was one delayed flight due to bad weather in Philly that Marc is especially fond of, but he wouldn't have been surprised if Claude had turned down his offer. He gets under the covers and hears Claude cross the room, and then the mattress sinks down as he climbs in next to him. 

It should be easier to drift off in the dark, but there's something about not being able to see Claude now, just hear his breathing and the rustle as he shifts around that means Marc is suddenly more awake than ever. He's trying to think about what would be the best way to break the silence between them, this strange bubble they've found themselves in, when Claude clears his throat. 

"Hey, Fleury?" he says, and Marc swears his heart skips a beat. He doesn't know what Claude is going to say next—ask what this is or talk about the degrees of change between the wholly casual thing they started with and here—but a mixture of anticipation and nervousness is jittering in his stomach. 

"Yeah?" he says, and his voice comes out slightly breathless. 

Whatever he'd been expecting, it isn't for Claude to say, "You're on my side of the bed." 

Marc stares at the ceiling before turning to look at Claude's profile in the ambient light coming through the curtains. "What?"

"My side of the bed," Claude repeats, shifting like he's going to climb over Marc if he doesn't move. "I always sleep on that side." 

"You are such—" Marc begins, and that's when Claude starts snickering. Marc gets his hands on Claude's waist, and then they're tussling in ernest. He goes for Claude's nipples, and Claude bites him until he lets go, then digs his fingers into Marc's ribs while Marc fights him off. 

"Why couldn't you just sleep in the other bed?" Marc asks when they've finally reached a standstill, Claude's leg thrown over his hips and one of Claude's arms pinned underneath Marc's body. He feels Claude shrug against him. 

"It's freezing in here." And then, "Don't fucking say it," and Marc doesn't, but he's perfectly willing to crank the heat up to boiling if Claude is still sleeping in the morning. 

"You are so much fucking work," Marc marvels. 

Claude laughs then, something Marc feels more than hears. "Hey, I'm worth it." 

Marc doesn't answer, but as Claude shifts closer to him, his side of the bed rightfully reclaimed, Marc thinks his silence is answer enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [dreamwidth](https://enter-remiges.dreamwidth.org/) or [tumblr!](https://enter-remiges.tumblr.com/)


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